


Warmth from the Cold

by shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, prompt 7: colors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21763276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/pseuds/shadows_of_1832
Summary: Enjolras falls ill, and it's up to Eponine to ensure he recovers.
Relationships: Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13
Collections: Enjonine Exchange 2019





	Warmth from the Cold

She would argue that, yes, red is most definitely his color. Whether it’s one of his shirts, his coat, or even a scarf, the color complimented the silvery-blue of his eyes. The brighter, vibrant hues that Enjolras sometimes wears made it easier for her to spot him in crowd. The darker hues, like maroon, were almost calming, inviting, to her after a long day at work.

There was one place she would argue that red was definitely not his color: his nose. (And not because he wasn’t the infamous reindeer.)

She had noticed the early signs of a cold Thursday night, only in the form of sneezing he had dismissed were from his seasonal allergies (which she hadn’t seen him suffer from much since early summer). By Friday morning, the added symptoms were a rougher voice and some coughing, to which he admitted that maybe he was coming down with something, but didn’t think it was going to be “too bad.” Then, by the evening, after he had returned home from work, the symptoms had only worsened, in addition to his skin being paler than normal and him feeling a chill despite the thermostat being turned up to twenty-four degrees Celsius with him dressed in a few layers of long-sleeved shirts and wrapped in a heavy fleece blanket.

This morning showed little improvement.

“It’s just a cold, Eponine,” he says, his voice scratchy as he stands in the hallway of their apartment. “Some cold medicine and cough drops and I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, and I’m the President of France,” she replies, standing by the microwave to heat some water for tea. “Get back in bed; you aren’t going anywhere today.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“You went through almost an entire box of tissues last night, you can barely talk, and in the few times you’ve had a coughing fit, you’ve hacked up heaven knows what,” she counters, dialing the numbers on the microwave. “Get back in bed. Oh, and I already texted Combeferre about what’s going on.”

_I’m lucky it’s a Saturday, otherwise I’d be fighting him trying to go to work_ , she keeps to herself. He gives her an expression reminiscent of the times she caught her younger brother trying to sneak desserts before dinner.

“I’m supposed to give a presentation at the—”

“Combeferre and the others will handle it. The only thing you need to worry about is getting some rest.” She walks over to him, the humming of the microwave in the background, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be there in a moment with the tea and some more tissues.”

He nods, then slowly makes his way back to the bedroom.

After she finishes preparing the tea as well as a bowl of applesauce (not knowing how much of an appetite he had and it’s one of the few things he’ll try eating no matter how unwell he is) and grabs another box of tissues from the hallway linen closet, she walks into the bedroom. She glances towards the snowy window, then towards him; he’s already settled in, propping himself up with a few pillows, an open book on his lap.

She sets down the cup and the bowl on the nightstand and drops the box of tissues on the floor next to the wastebin on his side of the bed.

“Thank you,” he says, looking towards her as she takes a seat on the empty side of the bed.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, smiling. “Is there anything else you’d like me to grab for you?”

He shakes his head. “You’ve done more than necessary.”

“Alright,” she says with a small laugh. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

He looks as if he’s about to respond, only to turn the other way and reach for a tissue. He just barely catches his own sneeze, which at this particular instance sounds similar to a cat’s. Very much a contrast to the trumpet-like noise that came from blowing his nose in such a state.

She rubs a few small circles on his back.

“Didn’t you have errands to run?” he asks.

“They can wait,” she replies. “My concern right now is focused on you, and only you.”


End file.
